


The Long Road Home

by LadyKailitha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Greg-centric, Minor Character Death, Mycroft Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKailitha/pseuds/LadyKailitha
Summary: When Sherlock gets devastating news that his father has passed away, he gets the sudden urge and desire to be home, at any cost. He gets pulled over for speeding through a red light by a young Sergeant Gregory Lestrade who stays until someone can come get him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm still working on Murder of Mary Morstan, but I've decided to put up little stories that I've been working on over the years that I have saved, but haven't typed up or had edited. This is the first. I thought I'd start with this one. 
> 
> There's a story behind this one. Everything we say or do comes from something we saw or read, and in this case it was one of those list things where people give their best "weird happenings" or "bad customers" type things this list was "good police encounters" and there was this one that just screamed Sherlock and Greg, and it didn't hurt the poster mentioned London as home. 
> 
> So here we are. I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock let the phone slip slowly from his numb fingers. He couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible. That had been his mother. And she wouldn't lie. Not about this, not about the man who was her husband and his father. The man who told Sherlock from his cradle that Sherlock could be anything he dreamed to be. Funded the telescopes, the microscopes, and the chemistry sets. The man who laughed when Sherlock accidentally caused an explosion in the kitchen. Mummy had been ready to spit acid. Mycroft was furious. But Father had laughed and built him a shed out back to contain Sherlock's further bursts of imagination.

That man was gone. He had died. Heart attack. Mummy had found him in his chair clutching his chest. She had called 999, but all the EMTs and doctors couldn't save him. In a single blink of eye, the greatest man in Sherlock's world was gone. Sherlock would never hear that laugh again. He just couldn't fathom it.

Sherlock had to see for himself. He had to see it with his own eyes. Father just couldn't _die_. He grabbed his jacket and car keys and ran down the stairs. He was out the door and into his car before he even remembered doing so. Suddenly the car was moving and Sherlock couldn't stop.

He's not sure how fast he was going when he ran the red light right in front of the black and white police car, but it was more than fast enough to catch the cop's attention. He also isn't sure how far he had gone before he noticed the red flashing lights in his rear view mirror. He pulled over and with shaking hands pulled out his wallet. His hands were quaking so badly he couldn't get his ID out.

“Hey, son,” the police office asked, “do you know how fast you were going when you ran that red light back there?”

Sherlock looked up into the warm, friendly brown eyes and began to sob. Then it all came out in a rambling sort of babble. About his father and how he just passed away, that Sherlock just had to get home.

The officer reached in through the window and turned off the engine. “You're in no shape to drive, son.”

Sherlock could only agree.

“Come on,” the officer said, “There's a cafe across the way, they're bound to have a phone you can use. I'll buy a sandwich and a coffee to tide you over until someone can get you.”

Sherlock nodded and got out of the car. The officer held his hand for the keys and Sherlock dutifully surrendered them.

“Good lad, I'll have someone take it back to your place and it'll be there when you get back,” the officer said with smile.

Sherlock let a out a watery chuckle.

“It's a start,” the officer replied. He led the way to the cafe and flashed his badge to the girl behind the counter.

“Hello, I'm Sergeant Lestrade, this young man needs to use a telephone,” Lestrade said with a disarming grin.

The shop girl looked at Sherlock warily, “He hasn't done anything wrong, has he?”

Lestrade shook his head, “Nah, he's just feeling a little too tired to drive and needs to call for a ride.”

She immediately brightened. “Oh, sure! There's one in the office, just through there.” She pointed and Sherlock shuffled that direction. And then Lestrade began his order.

Once in the office Sherlock dialed one of the two numbers he knew by heart.

“What is it, Sherlock?” his brother's nasal voice came through the line. “I'm _busy_. I just got into the office after being run off my feet all day.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. “Oh God. You don't know.”

“I don't know what, Sherlock?” Mycroft snapped.

“Mummy just called, Father has passed away.”

There was silence on the other line for several moments before the broken voice came through, “Heart attack.” Sherlock could hear Mycroft hitting a chair and sitting hard. “Oh God. My PA just gave me the message.”

Sherlock gave his brother a moment to let the news fully settle in. “I–I need you to come get me.” He let out a little sob before he continued. “I was pulled over and–” and the tears just spilled out.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I'm fine, well not fine but–” Sherlock cut himself off when he realized he was rambling. “The policeman has been kind, he just doesn't think I should drive. I believe him.”

Mycroft let out sigh of relief. “I do, too. I'll be there as soon as I can. Where are you?”

“Uh...” Sherlock began pawing at the letters that littered the desk. He couldn't remember where he was or if he had even been going the right way to get home. He found an envelope with the address on it. “Speedy's Cafe, Baker Street, Marylebone.”

Mycroft stood up and went the London map that hung in his office. “That is a bit far. They have me out in no man's land at the moment, so it might take me some time to get to you.”

Sherlock gulped. “I understand. I'll be here.”

“I know you will,” Mycroft replied softly. “I'm coming for you.”

Sherlock nodded even though he knew Mycroft couldn't see him.

“Bye,” he muttered.

“I'll be there as soon as I can, brother mine,” Mycroft murmured back.

Sherlock stared at the handset for a moment, listening to the dial tone before he hung up. He rubbed his nose and walked back out of the office and into the cafe.

He stopped short when he saw that his police officer was still there waiting for him. He walked up to the table that Lestrade was sitting at and slid into the chair opposite.

“Don't you have to get back to your post or whatever?” Sherlock asked, pulling the Styrofoam cup that was waiting for him closer. “Thanks for this, though,” he said, indicating the cup.

“No problem,” Lestrade said. “You're my last ticket of the day. I've got the time, the missus is going out tonight.”

“You don't have to stay, my brother is on his way,” Sherlock replied.

“I want to.”

Sherlock stared at his cup a moment before taking a sip. He coughed and quickly set it down. “What is that?”

Lestrade laughed, “What? You've never had had a black coffee before?”

Sherlock shook his head. “We only ever had tea at home, and when I went to university, I just never had the time to do anything but study.”

Lestrade frowned. “Most folks like to add cream, milk, or sugar in it first.”

Sherlock nodded. “How do you usually take it?”

“Black, two sugars,” Lestrade replied.

Sherlock pulled the sugar bowl closer and proceeded to dump two large spoonfuls into his cup.

He took a sip and then nodded again. “Better.”

Sherlock drank in silence for awhile before he spoke up, “Thank you, for more than just the coffee.”

Lestrade smiled softly. “It's tough losing a parent. I still remember when my mum passed, cancer.”

Sherlock winced. “Heart attack. He was only fifty,” he spat bitterly.

“Not sure what's worse, having the death be sudden like a heart attack or a prolonged departure like cancer. Either way it's pretty shite,” Lestrade agreed. “Any siblings?”

“One, an older brother named Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered into his cup. “He's the one picking me up.”

The girl at the counter brought over their sandwiches and Lestrade took a large bite of his, while Sherlock picked at his with his fingers.

“Mycroft and Sherlock? Unusual names, they run in the family?” Lestrade said around his bite.

Sherlock lifted his head up sharply. “Where did you get my name? I don't recall telling you and I know you haven't seen my ID.”

“Ran your plates before I got out of the cruiser,” Lestrade said with a smile.

Sherlock blinked. “Oh, right.” And he settled back into a morose state.

But slowly but surely Lestrade drew him out of his shell with talks about Sherlock's schooling and Lestrade's career.

“I'm getting ready to take the investigations exam, soon I'll be Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade.” Lestrade puffed out his chest with pride.

“That'll certainly be a feat,” Sherlock jokingly sneered.

“Oi! Just watch, I'll be Detective Inspector Lestrade of the homicide division one day, just you wait and see.”

Sherlock laughed.

A couple of hours later, Sherlock and Mycroft were standing on the curb bidding Lestrade farewell.

“Thank you for taking care of my little brother, Sergeant,” Mycroft said, shaking Lestrade's hand,

“It was a real pleasure,” Lestrade replied, waving his hand. “He's a smart kid.”

Sherlock beamed.

“Yes, he is,” Mycroft agreed. “When he's not causing trouble.”

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at his brother.

Lestrade chuckled. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. He wrote his number on the back, “That's my personal number. Call me if you ever need anything, all right?”

Mycroft plucked the card out his hand, “Thank you, but I'm sure everything will be fine.”

Sherlock snatched it back, “That's my decision to make,” he growled. “Not yours.”

“As you wish,” Mycroft said, placating.

“I hope to see you boys again,” Lestrade said getting into his cruiser. “Under much better circumstances.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed. 

* * *

Ten Years Later

“Don't touch me!” Sherlock hissed.

Greg shook his head, “Will you just let the poor woman patch you up and we can all go home?”

Sherlock was sitting on the back of an ambulance fighting with two very nice paramedics who just wanted to look at the heavily bleeding cut on his arm while Lestrade stood off to the side with John.

“Not on your life,” Sherlock snarled. “Paramedics, nurses, doctors, useless! The whole lot can go to hell!”

“Oi!” John protested, “That's my profession you're maligning there!”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

Greg sighed. “It's not that. He just doesn't trust them,” he explained. “His father had a heart attack and they weren't able to save him.”

John let out a low whistle. From the things that he had gathered from listening to the Holmes brothers bicker, their father had passed away roughly ten years ago. Sherlock would have a been young enough for something like that to have an impact.

Greg shook his head again, “The day he died was the first time I met Sherlock and Mycroft.”

John frowned. “I thought you said that you had only known Sherlock for five years.”

Greg just shrugged. “Known, sure. Five years. Not the day I met him, that was five years before that. Pulled him over for a couple of traffic violations.” Greg shoved his hands into his coat pockets and watched Sherlock struggle with the paramedics. “The poor kid was just trying to get home. I stayed with him for a couple of hours waiting for Mycroft to come pick him up. Sherlock turned up again five years later at a crime scene, high as a kite. And I've kept my eye on him ever since.”

John nodded. “He trusts me, though.”

Greg huffed out a laugh. “So he does. God knows why, but he does.”

John frowned again. “You think he'd let me look at his arm? All this moving around he's doing is just causing it to bleed more.”

Greg shrugged again, “I suppose it couldn't hurt to try.”

John walked up to the back of the ambulance. “Sherlock, do you trust me?”

Sherlock stopped screaming and turned to look at John. He blinked a few times before he said, “Of course I do.”

“Enough for me to patch you up?” John pressed. Three sets of eyes were on him now, as he had drawn the attention of the paramedics. “I'm a doctor for the NHS,” he explained, fishing out his NHS ID.

Sherlock opened his mouth a couple of times, but no words came out. He nodded.

“Good,” John said with a smile. “If these nice ladies would show me where everything I need is in the ambulance, I'll get you sorted right away.”

Once John got what he needed everyone watched in awe as this blond, little man tamed the wild beast.

Five minutes later John said, “There you go, all done. That wasn't so hard, now was it?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Thank you, John.”

“You're welcome,” John said, helping Sherlock to his feet. “Let's go home.”

“I'd like that.” 


End file.
